Like Grapefruits
by kiwismakemehappy
Summary: Now a series of drabbles/oneshots. Newest chapter includes streams of conscience.
1. Grapefruits

_A/N: I've (finally) edited the first couple of chapters. I also fixed the formatting a bit, so hopefully it's easier to read._

"What's the name of your boat?" asked Alex. The dark haired, spindly boy in front of him began to gush excitedly about their family's yacht, and how he spent his extra weekends sailing on it. Alex took notes on auto pilot and let his mind wander a bit.

It had been the councilor's idea to put him in accelerated English; some sort of reverse psychology about if he had more responsibility, he'd be less willing to miss school. In reality, all it did was make an amazing amount of homework for him to catch up on when he got back from his missions.

Today's torture was a timed writing assignment about an assigned partner in the class. They had that day to interview each other, and the next day to do the actual writing. Alex was partnered with a boy by the name of Sheldon, who enjoyed talking about himself and his various hobbies. Sheldon's chattiness was both good and bad: good because Alexhad a lot of information to write his essay about, and bad because the unstopping prattle was really annoying. Alex was snapped out of his revere by an abrupt halt in his partner's monologue.

"So," Sheldon began, "what about your family?"

Alex was sure his current situation was well enough know via public school gossip, but he decided to answer anyway.

"I don't remember my parents; they died when I was really little. My Dad's brother, Ian took me in and raised me until recently when he died in a car accident." The lie stuck hard in Alex's throat, and he thought bitterly of all that had happened since that fateful funeral. "Jack, my house keeper, looks after me now."

The boy nodded and jotted down some notes, but continued without batting an eye. "Have you ever been out of England?" Alex answered in the affirmative and gave some explanation to the places he'd been. The interview continued on for another ten minutes with him giving minimal, (and in some cases not entirely true,) answers until the bell was about to ring.

"Is there anything interesting about you that people might like to know?" Sheldon asked, gathering up his books and putting them in a stack as if he didn't expect an answer. Alex allowed himself the smallest of grins.

'_Yes actually,'_ he thought, _'I'm a spy. I come from a family of spies. I've saved the world on a half a dozen different occasions, seriously ticked off at least 2 major criminal organizations, and oh, I've been be punched, kicked, run over, run into, attacked by wild animals, almost been drown, and shot over the past couple of months. Did I mentioned I don't even get paid?' _

Yeah—that would go over really well. Alex shrugged his shoulders. "I peel my grapefruits and eat them like oranges," he said as the bell rang.


	2. Lies

_A/N: Uh, sorry if this didn't make a whole lot of sense. I was reading about how everyone sent Alex cards when he had "appendicitis," and this sort of popped into my head. I was going to post it by itself, but it's too stinking short, so I attached it to Grapefruits. (It seems as though I have a AR drabble fetish. :D ) Any glaring mistakes please point out, and any criticism feel free to let loose._

Alex stared at the faded white ceiling tucked under his sterile white sheets and listened to the slow beep… beep… of the monitor and the whirring of the machines attached to his chest and IV drip.

He was in the hospital again. _'Considering my line of work, this isn't a surprising statement,' _he reflected absently. _'But it isn't even M16's fault this time.'_

An unsmiling, burly nurse let herself into his room. Her orthopedic shoes made a dull thumping noise on the cheap linoleum. She looked over the clip board at the foot of his bed, and surveyed the readouts from the machines. Alex began to say something, but thought better of it when she flashed him a look that said she clearly couldn't care less. The hefty nurse then proceeded to take his blood pressure and temperature.

'_You'd think they'd care a little more considering I've just undergone surgery'_ he thought. The nurse stood up, paused a moment to see if he was going to say anything, and left. He lay in his bed and stared at the ceiling some more. The inescapable boredom was beginning to creep back, and this time, he wasn't even well enough yet to take nightly jaunts. Bored, he reflected on life, luck, and karma. 'Karma has a cruel sense of humor,' he though, referring to his current predicament. 'I wonder which excuse the school is getting, considering this one has already been used.'

#

"Rider is in the hospital," Ms. Jones reported to her boss. He sat in behind a desk, reclining slightly in his industrial strength office chair.

"Really?" he asked barley able to feign interest in the fact that his subordinate was ill. It did put a damper in his plans to send the boy to Guam on another mission, complete with a rich manic and weapons of mass destruction, but he didn't really feel like telling his fellow agent that. "Anything I should know about?"

Ms. Jones frowned slightly at her superior's obvious lack of concern, but she proceeded, "He had to undergo major surgery. Ironically enough, the housekeeper, Jack, had to lie about why he was in the hospital." Blunt was beginning to look slightly comatose, but she continued anyway. "Yes, it turns out Alex has appendicitis, something he's already been "afflicted" with."

#

It was past midnight, and Alex was still awake, staring this time at the sterile wall painted a sort of industrial, pea green. He sighed. Tom had come with a card, right before the hospital closed. "Sorry about "getting your tonsils taken out," it said. Underneath it, in sprawling, impatient print, Tom had written, "a better excuse would have been that you'd hurt yourself saving the world. Get better soon mate, English class is killer without you." If nothing else, it made Alex smile.


	3. Unit

_A/N: This was an exercise in dialogue, and it's my first time writing the K Unit. As usual, I did my best to self-edit, but I only comprehend the English language so well... _

_Disclaimer: I wish I did, but the fact remains that I don't own the Alex Rider series._

"Being incarcerated is the worst."

"No. Being dead is."

"Geeze Cub, you're always such a beacon of sunshine."

"Hey- I'm just being honest."

"Snake, d'you know what this reminds me of?"

"Bejiing?"

"Yup- Bejing. Dirty, dark, and with nothing to pass the time but unpleasant companionship."

"You're one to talk Eagle. If memory serves, it was you who got us caught in the first place."

"Everybody makes mistak-"

"Especially you. You lost us our position in Columbia too."

"That was-"

"Oh, and Wolf, do you remember Sedan? I got nicked in the bum because of him!"

"Now hold on a second! You hardly have a clean slate yourself Fox! You almost got us sent back to basic training with that drunken brawl in Paraguay."

"But the mission was already over! At least I didn't pull a Snake, dragging possible hostiles out of a collapsing building and slowing us all down!"

"There are worse things than being noble, Fox. Wolf has made a career of incapacitating civilians."

"Shut. Up."

"No, please continue. You've got me curious now."

"Well, in the heat of battle, Wolf has gotten carried away a few-"

"Another word and you're on mess duty indefinably once we get out of here."

"If we get out of here."

"Again with the sunshine Cub. C'mon kid."

"Yeah, and what about Cub? He's bound to have messed up more than any of us."

"…"

"…"

"…"

"…"

"Remember Cairo?"

"Hey yeah! Instead of securing the exits like he was told, he made the moves on Wolf!"

"He fainted on top of him, idiot. If that's your idea of a pass then you have worse luck with women that I thought."

"And I was concussed, so that hardly counts."

"Fair enough."

"…"

"…"

"…"

"…"

"We had to save your butt at Point Blanc!"

"That doesn't count either. I made a clean get-away before any of you stepped in to help. And besides, I more than made up for it by saving your sorry butts in Beijing."

"Ha, nice try Cub. The locks on our cell were picked by some Chinese kid."

"Exactly."

"Don't tell me that was you!"

"Fine then, I won't tell you."

"…"

"…"

"…"

"…"

"Ok then, lesson learned. If we ever split into teams again, I'm on Cub's."


	4. Mistaken

_A/N: So timeline wise, I'm thinking Alex was about seventeen when he supposedly "died," making him about twenty-five here. I was originally going to have an epic story revolving around him faking his own death and then starting a new life 'n stuff, but then I realized I was just too lazy for it. So here's a snippet from along those lines. _

_Not that it matters, but I've written three other drabbles before this one, none of which I was willing to post because they were terrible. Standard disclaimer applies. Warning- OOCness and the "h" word._

Ben Daniels was killing time. He sat at a metal café table outside a strip mall in Southern California. The intelligence worker sipped his truly terrible coffee and pretended to read the newspaper as he waited for his contact; unfortunately, the meeting time was not scheduled for another three hours so Ben resigned himself to boredom. He scanned the crowd restlessly. A woman jogged past with a stroller while a ginger haired man with tattoos checked his watch.

A few tables over sat another man. His hair was bleached from the California sun and his dark eyes were serious as they scanned whatever he was reading. He was unobtrusive, and though vaguely handsome, not particularly memorable. So why did he look so familiar?... With a start, Ben realized who he was looking at.

"Alex?" asked Ben Daniels incredulously. "Alex Rider?" The man in front of him was older, taller, and tanner, but he was defiantly the young spy that was presumed dead almost eight years ago. Alex stiffened and his eyes snapped up to stare at Ben. He seemed to debate with himself before nodding in acknowledgment.

"Ben. It's been a while," he said calmly.

"A while! Try almost a decade," Ben growled. He was glad the kid-no, a man now- was alive, sure, but for some reason Ben was furious. How could Rider trick the entire unit, all the people who knew and cared about him, and be so cool and collected? "Where the bloody hell have you been?"

Alex gazed at Ben with calm calculation. He sighed and collected his thoughts. "You remember that night I was shot and fell off the tanker?" Ben nodded. He had nightmares about it for weeks. "The wound was superficial but the water was freezing. I swam, and tried to stay awake, and I was almost a goner when I found some debris to cling to. I found out later that you blew up the whole starboard side of the ship, but I just thought I was really lucky at the time." He smiled ironically and continued.

"I made it to shore and someone must have found me and taken me to a hospital. I was so delirious I gave them a false name, which I guess is why M16 couldn't find me. When I was well enough, I slipped away only to find out everyone thought I was dead. It was the day after my funeral, Jack had just returned to America, and I realized there was nothing left for me in my old life but misery and danger. I came to America myself, got a fake ID, went to school, and had a normal life."

Ben nodded warily. Knowing Alex, it somehow made sense that he would survive and flourish against all odds. The thing was, Ben was excellent at reading people, and Alex was lying about something. No, not lying necessarily, leaving something out…

"I have nothing to do with your contract or whatever mission you're on. I'd really appreciate it if you kept our meeting a secret," Alex continued, and his eyes went hard and dangerous.

"You could be arrested for evading an intelligence agency, illegal immigration, fake identification. I'm honor bound to report this…"

"Daddy!" yelled a delighted voice. Ben turned to see a small, dark haired girl sprinting toward them with reckless abandon. Following behind her at a more sedate pace was an elegant woman in a sundress with her dark tresses piled casually atop her head. This woman, obviously the child's mother, held a shopping bag with the words "Girls Rule" printed on the outside.

"Sorry we took so long. She's got runs in all her tights but that store didn't carry any nylons that were small enough, so I just ended up buying a bunch of knee-highs… Oh, hello!" the woman said, and laughed embarrassedly. "Honey, is he a friend of yours?"

Ben absorbed this new development, considering the implications of Alex's family.

"He was just leaving," Alex assure his wife, and looked at Ben with a question in his eyes.

Ben nodded, stood up, and turned to depart, adding over his shoulder, "Sorry. I was mistaken; you look like someone I use to know."


	5. Numb

_A/N: I really like Jack! I was going to write a bunch of holiday shots, but I basically never got around to it in time- this was the closest thing I got so… cheers? It's after midnight and I'm sure I'll catch a bunch of mistakes in the morning, but I'm posting this thing now because I probably won't have time once school picks up again next week. Enjoy! (Or not, considering this it's fairly bleak.) _

_Standard disclaimer applies._

"Alex! What are you still doing out here? And without a coat?" Jack stomped out into the yard without a coat herself, snowflakes clinging to her hair and steaming billowing from her breath. The young spy was three days back from his latest mission, and he had spent almost all of that time outside staring at nothing. Jack had driven past worried and was parked firmly in panic mode. Alex had been through a lot, but after previous missions he'd been able to settle back into normal life well enough. But now….

She stared hard at the teenager she considered a younger brother. He didn't even acknowledge her concern, choosing instead to stare into oblivion. His lips were blue and tremors wracked his body, though Jack suspected they had little to do with the temperature.

"It's freezing out here," she tried again.

"I don't feel anything," he replied.

"I made some hot chocolate…. It's instant," she added with a smile, "but it tastes good just the same. I even bought the squirty whip cream." He made no move to come inside. "Really Alex, you'll catch your death out here!" she groused, wondering if she was strong enough to manhandle him indoors.

Alex shrugged. "So?"

All thoughts fled from Jack's mind as she stared at the lifeless individual before her. Without intention or premeditation, she closed the space between them and slapped him hard across the face. Her hand was smarting but she ignored it in favor her ward's stunned expression. She grabbed the front of his school shirt.

"You listen, and you listen good," she growled. "You're better than this. If you think for an instant that you're allowed to give up or die or anything stupid like that you'd better forget it. I'll slap you half-way to China and then some if you even _think_ about it. You are not a quitter and I…" she gulped and tried to clear the hoarseness from her voice, "…need you. So just, just buck up ok? It kills me to see you like this."

She crushed him in a hug that he eventually returned. They stayed that way for a long moment, Jack forcing her comfort on him, and Alex giving silent reassurance of his own. Her face was especially cold and… wet? When did she start crying?

Eventually they headed inside. She wordlessly handed him a steaming mug. "Thanks," he said with a half-smile, and Jack knew it wasn't just for the drink.


	6. Bartender

_A/N: Here is your next installment of "Like Grapefruits." Alex is a little bit older in this one. I just had my wisdom teeth removed yesterday so I thought I'd write something while I was healing up and looking like a chipmunk. Sorry if it's confusing. I don't really have an idea for a sequel, but I'll probably write one if anyone's interested. _

_On the bright side, I clicked synonyms for beer, and the computer gave me nip, tipple, and snifter, which I thought was pretty awesome. As always, I don't own Alex Rider. Happy reading!  
_

"You want anything?" the bartender asked for the third time. He was youngish and dressed in clothes that teetered somewhere between dirty and filthy. Special Agent Thomas Briggs wasn't sure he wanted anything prepared by a man with that level of hygiene, but his mysterious partner was two hours late and the agent was feeling increasingly obvious sitting at a bar with nothing to drink.

"Just a beer. Imported, if you've got it," he said. The bartender gave him a disbelieving look, rolled his eyes, popped the cap off of an obviously generic beer, and slid it down the bar in a nonchalant, practiced motion. Briggs nodded and tried to hide his distaste.

A former Navy Seal, Thomas Briggs's motto was: get in, get the job done, get out. He was a man of action; he hated the stationary limbo of spy work and couldn't stand this intelligence nonsense of sneaking around. Worst of all was the politics; The United States and Britain had a joint interest in the take down of this weapons cartel so his supposed "partner" was one of the Brit's finest operatives. He needed the other man to infiltrate the building, but…

"He's late. Do they not teach their guys how to tell time?" He grumbled quietly.

"You say something?" the bartender asked churlishly.

"Just taking to myself," Briggs replied.

"I don't like your attitude. You come in here, waste space for hours, and then you're all 'I'm so tough, but give me fancy booze.' Who do you think you are? James Bond?" The boy's accent became more pronounced the angrier he got. Briggs made a placating gesture, which was obviously the wrong move. The boy sauntered closer and growled, "you threatening me? I think me and my boys should show you how real men fight."

"Excuse me?" Briggs growled. This kid was getting on his nerves.

"Yeah, you're right. I don't need anyone else to teach your pussy self a lesson _hombre_. "

Briggs leaned forward and grabbed the front of the bartender's grubby shirt. "Just try it punk," he hissed. He was tense, tired, and annoyed beyond belief. The last thing he needed was some twerp getting all macho on him and drawing attention.

The boy spit in his face and Briggs snapped. He hauled the kid over the bar and slammed him into a nearby table. Unfortunately, the kid kicked a chair into the agent's legs, making him loosen his grip and allowing the bartender to wriggle free. The young man swung his leg around to kick Briggs's face, a blow he easily blocked only to get blindsided by the brat using the table to propel himself forward and shove the man off balance. Briggs grunted and slammed his opponents head into a bar stool. The fight was over in a matter of seconds as two burly bouncers pulled the fighters apart and dragged them past the bar area and into the dingy back offices.

"You cause trouble, you get locked in the cages," the guard growled at Briggs. The young bartender snorted, and the other man said, "where you think you goin' Ernesto? You been warned already 'bout that temper. You get to simmer in the cages with sunshine- boss'll deal with you later." Briggs noted with satisfaction that reprimand certainly shut the kid up. The guards opened a series of locked doors until the finally reached a group of rank cells. Before Briggs could decide whether or not to make a break for it- his mission was screwed either way- he and the Ernesto kid were shoved into the closest cell and locked in.

Briggs stared in dumb disbelief at the retreating backs of the guards until they exited the cell block and locked the door behind them.

"I know you were trying to be convincing, but there is such a thing as over acting. You probably gave me a concussion," said a voice lightly. Briggs whipped around and stared at the boy he was jailed with. Gone was the child with a look of ignorant anger, brutish posture, and thick accent, and in his place was a boy with clear, intelligent eyes and a wry smile. The young man extended a hand.

"Briggs is it? I'm Alex Rider, your new partner."


	7. Lethal

_A/N: Well, this is a short one. I thought we needed some K Unit, and this was all I could muster up. Disclaimer is, as it always will be, in effect. Also per usual, I didn't spend much time proofreading. Proceed!_

"Don't shoot your eye out," Wolf growled, extending his arm and handing Alex a military-issued handgun.

"I'll do my best," the teen replied sarcastically, taking the proffered weapon and subconsciously weighing the balance and nuances of the gun. Wolf stared at the kid and sighed internally. It was like a cruel joke. In those extremely baggy pants and hanging camouflage parka, Cub looked like one of the neighborhood kids playing dress-up with their dad's clothing. Whatever M16 wanted with this kid, he was bound to be more of a liability than an asset.

"The rules of the course are simple: you must clip 80% of the moving targets in their vitals without getting tagged by them in return. If you are hit, your tags will give off a slight electrical shock to warn you that you've lost. At that point, the trial will be reset. Are we clear?" asked Snake.

"Crystal," replied Alex, completely unaffected. Snake nodded and headed back to the controls.

"Seriously though, Cub, Don't feel discouraged if you aren't successful your first time through. None of us were either," Snake yelled over the cranking of the gears as the mechanical targets began to move.

"_Just a kid, a bloody teenager. What are they thinking, sending us this schoolboy again? What are they using him for? He's just a-"_

Wolf's thought train was derailed by twelve shots in rapid succession. A bell rang overhead signifying the successful completion of the training exercise. Wolf stared in stark disbelief at the neat and perfectly accurate holes punched through the dozen mechanical figures. Alex's partly crouched figure was twisted away from the target's guns and his arms were still stiff against his handgun's recoil. Wolf stared at his cold, calculating eyes and a shiver ran through his body. Instead of a kid in the oversized clothing, Cub looked…

"Positively lethal."


	8. Prom

_A/N: Mostly I just wanted to write something about Prom considering 'tis the season and all. I'm not a huge fan of Sabina, but I didn't want to create an OC so I inserted her into the story. I sincerely, sincerely apologize if this is confusing again. Enjoy!_

_Disclaimer: I don't own Alex or Sabina… but I _do _own a new Prom dress!_

~~~~~~~~Prom~~~~~~~~

"_It will be a night you'll always remember!"_

The words bounced around in Sabina's head and she smirked at the irony. She and Alex were sitting side-by-side as the police finished documenting the crime scene. The criminals had been taken in police cruisers about twenty minutes prior, and so the couple was forced to sit and wait until the officers were satisfied that they had everything they needed.

She was dirty and bedraggled: her carefully curled and pinned hair was in shambles, her dress was torn and dirty, her makeup was smudged, and somewhere amongst their hurried escapes, she had lost both shoes, and as a result, her expensive pedicure was completely pointless. She would defiantly remember her senior Prom.

She looked over at her date. Apart from his newly soiled tux, he looked completely unfazed by the whole incident. The red and blue lights of the police sirens spun across his nonchalant face until he turned to face her and some of his unfeeling mask crumbled away.

"I'm really sorry Sab. This was supposed to be one of the best nights of your high school life. That dress must have been expensive too," he said guiltily.

"It was really expensive," she said with a shrug, "but Mum and I got it last summer for half price, so it's not so bad. Don't worry about it." She smiled, and that seemed to thaw some of the tension between them.

That was her problem, she decided. She should be angry with him for ruining her special night. Instead, she was really impressed—who else did she know that could single-handedly topple a gun-smuggling operation in one night?

"Ok kids, you're free to go as soon as Officer Bruner finalizes your statements so you can sign them," once of the police men said as he lumbered over. "Officially, I need to tell you that what you did was foolhardy and to never attempt something like that again." The man hiked up his pants and straightened his hat uncomfortably. A wry smile overtook Alex's face.

"And unofficially?" he asked.

"Unofficially, I'm impressed. That was either really brave or really stupid. We've been trying to bust those guys for months—you took them down in matter of hours." The cop shook his head incredulously. "Kid, if you're looking for a job in the future, we could really use you on the force."

Sabina snorted and smiled at the man. "I dunno Sir. He seems more like the secret agent type to me."


	9. Obligations

_A/N: I'm officially done with High School forever and ever! In celebration, I'm uploading this... depressing snippet. Hm. Not the best plan I've ever had. Ah well!_

_Disclaimer: Do I still have to do this after the first couple chapters? _

Ian never asked for this.

He never asked to read the eulogy at John and Helen's pitifully attended funeral.

He never asked to be a poll-bearer for his brother, to be the one to inter whatever ashes the forensics unit had identified as belonging to John to the cold, unyielding ground. The man died as a decorated soldier, and received a soldier's funeral with cornet music in the background and the British flag folded respectfully over the casket. So did Helen. Ian didn't know why that was—aesthetic appeal, he supposed.

He didn't ask to drive home alone, knuckles going white as he clenched and unclenched his fingers uncontrollably around the steering wheel.

All those little burdens paled in comparison to the last one, the biggest responsibility of all that he really, _really_ didn't ask for. He opened the door to his house, deposited his keys on their specified hook, and walked up the stairs with heavy steps. A middle-aged woman greeted him at the door of his make-shift nursery.

"I finally got him to bed, poor tyke. He's been fitful all afternoon with that cold. It's too bad he couldn't go to the funeral," she said.

"Why? It wouldn't have meant anything to him. He's just a baby," Ian replied coldly.

"Oh, uh, I suppose not," she said, as politely as she could manage, although still with an edge of annoyance. "I have to leave now. Mix the liquid cold medicine with some juice in his sippy cup. He should have some when he wakes up."

And with those words she went home, leaving Ian alone and very, very out of his comfort zone. He nudged open the door and padded as silently as he could over to Alex's crib. The baby was indeed asleep, breathing heavily through his mouth because his nose was stuffed up. His jumper was decorated with trucks, and as Ian watched his tiny chest rise and fall, he remembered Helen buying that outfit the previous month.

He heaved a heavy, careworn sigh. The kid was cute, there was no denying it, but… Ian was _not_ ready to be a father. He was the least fatherly sort of person imaginable. He was cold, he was calculating, he was introverted. He was absolutely, positively unqualified.

The baby gave a fitful little grumble and flung out a pudgy arm. He sighed again, and readjusted the blanket. "I'm sorry, kid. I just didn't ask for _any_ of this."


	10. Couch

_A/N: Since I've had a request for a drabble about Ian, Alex, and Jack, I figured I'd update. This chapter feels really long. (Probably because it was originally supposed to be pretty short.) Oh, and I have to do a quick plug here- if you like this sort of story, then you should defiantly check out Amari Bell's _Where the Heart Is_. It's easily one of the best fics in the fandom, especially if you think Jack is BA, Alex is adorable, and Ian isn't so detached after all. : )_

_On a different note, the next chapter I'll write will probably be the sequel for Bartender. So that'll be up as soon as I actually get around to jotting it down._

The first time it happened Ian was annoyed. He returned home from a mission at 1! AM only to find his housekeeper and his nephew crashed on the couch, completely asleep. It was against his most basic principles—beds were for sleeping, couches were for sitting, and no one should sleep in past 9 in the morning unless they were ill. Not to mention the fact that the woman who was supposed to be keeping his house clean and orderly had spilled popcorn on his floor and was currently blissfully unaware of her blunder as she _drooled_ on his throw pillows.

He stalked across the room and threw open the curtains, letting the light stream into the room. Alex awoke almost immediately. His eyes were sleep-muddled until they settled on Ian, when they brightened with excitement and recognition.

"Ian!" Alex exclaimed in eagerness. He took in his uncle's disgruntled appearance and decided to tone down his enthusiasm. "Um. Jack manhandled me. We watched chick flicks. I didn't mean to fall asleep on your couch," he said by way of explanation. "Sorry."

"I suppose it's fine," Ian relented, unwilling to get into an argument when he'd just gotten back from a mission. "Although I was expecting Jack to be a little bit more mature," he grumbled. As if sensing her name in the conversation, Jack let out a huge yawn and began to stretch as she woke up. Her flaming hair was completely flat on one side and her clothing was rumpled unprofessionally.

"Wazzit… Oh Ian, you're home." She said sleepily, and then yawned again, completely unfazed by his icy demeanor. "Don't worry about the mess. I'll clean it up in a bit. Have you had breakfast?"

"Yes."

"Well that's good. Hey Alex, what do you want for breakfast? I'm famished," she said, stretching once more and then rolling off the couch.

Because Ian was excellent at controlling his emotions, he reigned in his annoyance and waited for her to finish breakfast so that she could clean up his living room. True to her word, the floor was spic and span within the hour, and she was back in his good graces. After all, he couldn't very well fire her for something so minute: Alex actually liked her, and it certainly was a pain to find new housekeepers. So he let it slide.

The second time it happened, Ian was in a less forgiving mood.

"Oh, hey Ian! I'll just-"

"Ms. Starbright, we need to talk about this," he said, inclining his head towards the disaster of his living room.

The American sighed. "Yeah, I guess we do." She moved a blanket aside and sat down on the sofa. He sat in the chair adjacent to it.

"Ms. Starbright, I simply can't have you sleeping in the living room. It's bad for the furniture for one thing, and it's certainly unprofessional. You pump my nephew full of sugar," at this remark he shot a disdainful glance at the empty box of Mike 'n Ikes littering his floor, "and then teach him terrible sleeping habits. This idiosyncrasy of yours-"

"You want to talk about idiosyncrasies?" Jack cut in, glaring at her employer. "How about the fact that you spend half your time away on business trips, and the rest of your time completely emotionally unavailable? You have a responsibility as Alex's guardian to support him! And I don't mean teaching him French and occasionally going on a scuba diving trip! I mean playing football with him and helping him with homework-"

"My child rearing skills have nothing to do with this Jack. We are talking about your irresponsibility-"

"Your lackluster parenting has everything to do with this," Jack hissed. She swept her arm across his living room and continued. "Why do you think I spent the night comforting him?"

That statement stopped Ian short. "What?" he asked, eyes narrowed.

Jack took a deep breath and sat back in her chair. "It was Parent's Day in Alex's second grade class yesterday. He spent the entire day watching his classmates' parents shower their children with affection. He was the only kid in his class without an adult. You know how he is: he didn't mention anything until dinner, but it was obvious he felt terrible about it."

Ian mentally sighed in relief. "Oh. Is that all?" Suddenly Jack was furious again.

"Is that all? Come on Ian! Alex is seven years old! He's defiantly mature for his age, but he's seven! He admires you, and loves you so much. I know you love him too, but you need to show it in a way a seven-year-old can understand. He had to watch all of his friends get hugs and kisses and be told 'good job,' and 'I'm so proud of you' yesterday, only to come home to your absence. Don't you think that was hard on him?" She seethed.

It made sense. Ian thought for a moment and nodded. "Alright. Thank you Jack. I'll see what I can do," he said, obviously catching her off guard and ending the short confrontation.

"Oh. Ok, thanks. I'll just, um, clean this up then…

The third time it happened it was Alex's eighth birthday. Ian got home late from the office. He walked in with the movie still playing. Alex and Jack were asleep and there were two half-eaten pieces of cake on the floor. He grumbled a bit to himself, but decided it was probably a losing battle. Careful to make no noise, the spy crept across the room. He picked up the cake and the other random food strewn about the floor and threw them into the trash. He turned off the television and then turned to face his young charge. The boy was sleeping peacefully, though in an awkward position. Ian scooped him and carried him upstairs to his room. Alex stirred a little and his eyes fluttered open.

"Ian…"

"Hey Al. You don't have to wake up," he murmured, doing his best not to jostle his nephew awake.

"Mmkay," he muttered in return, snuggling closer to his uncle. Ian smiled softly. He found Alex's doorknob in the darkness and crept inside. Luckily, the boy's room was immaculate, so he didn't have to worry about stepping on stray toys. He set Alex down lightly, unsurprised that the child was already asleep.

"Love you kiddo," he said impulsively and ruffled his hair.

At some point, Ian lost track of the number of times he caught his housemates sleeping on his expensive couch. Over the following year, it went from annoying to tolerable, and eventually even became endearing. Likewise, Jack became part of their already unorthodox life, and Ian realized she had become endearing too.


	11. Bartender II

_A/N: So here's my sequel to Bartender. I re-read the chapter, and I thought to myself, "it's a good thing I knew what I meant because this thing is hecka confusing." So I seriously, seriously apologize for how jumbled and bleh that was. Still, a couple people asked for part two, so I'm obliging with the hope that it'll be better. Oh, and you'll notice that the gadgets suck, and… I have no excuse for that. I just couldn't think of anything. : )_

Surprised was an understatement. Astounded, confused, and shocked were adjectives that more accurately described Brigg's emotions at the young spy's revelation. The former Seal could do nothing but gape at the teenager in disbelief. Alex, in contrast, simply walked over to the chair and water basin contained in their cramped cell, giving them each a little tug to ascertain that they were bolted to the floor. He nodded as if this was what he expected.

"_You_ are Alex Rider?" The man asked incredulously.

"Well, yes. I'm your inside man. I thought you knew that," the boy—Alex—turned to face his cellmate and quirked a sarcastic eyebrow.

"Sure I did, but I was expecting someone…" Briggs searched for the right word.

"Older? I get that a lot."

"No, well, I mean, yes, but someone more professional," he replied. Remembering their situation, Brigg's face contorted in anger. "Why the hell did you pick a fight with me if you knew we'd end up in jail?"

Alex smirked. "You want to talk about professionalism? You were successfully baited by someone you thought was just some punk off the street." Alex walked the length of the cell, tapping his heel along the length of the floor. "I thought your acting was a little _too_ good for some Navy grunt."

"See here, you little brat. I—what the heck are you doing?" Briggs asked. Alex had stopped scuffing the floor and was instead rapping a knuckle randomly against the wall. After a moment, his eyes widened as the soft tapping sound reverberated inside the boards.

"I am finding the air duct that was sealed over once this building became the southern Cartel's shipping base," Alex replied with a self-satisfied grin.

"Oh. So that's why you got us thrown in jail?" the agent questioned, finally understanding the bigger picture.

"Nothing gets past you," the young spy replied sarcastically. "Hold this." Alex tossed his apron at his partner, and the retired military man held the filthy garment in distaste. Alex extracted a battered wallet from his pocket, and began to work on the wall. "This contains an all-purpose lock pick, miniature saw blade, and chameleon putty," Alex explained as he worked to cut away a portion of the wall, being careful to pull it away in one piece.

"So what's the plan?" Briggs asked, snapping into mission mode. Get in, get the job done, get out: just his kind of assignment.

"I'm going to follow this duct to Garcias's office. I'm going to break in, steal his shipping manifests, and come back here. I'll re-seal the duct. Then I'll give the manifests, pictures, voice recordings, and all the other evidence I've managed to collect to you. Finally, I will break you out. You will escape with said evidence, and I will tell the other gang members that you stole the papers. In about a month or so I'll follow you back to the States. Got it?" Alex demanded.

Briggs understood, but he didn't like it. He was used to dangerous missions: that's what he was here for. Why was the kid risking his neck?

"Why can't we leave at the same time?" Briggs asked.

"You can get away fairly easily, but I'm a known face. I won't be able to escape until you've taken the bulk of the suspicion."

It made sense. Well, at least he should be the one to take the risks in the most immediate part of the mission.

"No. I'll go. You stay here and keep guard," Briggs declared.

Alex sighed. "Alright. Do you know how to get to Garcias's office?"

"Uh,…"

"Are you sure you can be absolutely silent in the air ducts? Those small, cramped vents?"

"Well,…"

"And do you know where the manifests are kept? Can you find them before you yourself are found?"

"Um…"

"Exactly." Any playfulness or lightness disappeared from Alex's tone with that one word. He stared long and hard at the American man who was supposed to be his support.

"Look, Briggs. This isn't about being macho or alpha. This is about completing our assignment and getting out of here alive. I have the best chance of accomplishing that out of the two of us. I refuse to be compromised because you want to be the one to take all the risks. Besides, if you get caught in Garcias's office, you'll be shot on sight. I will probably be able to get away."

The teenager's tone allowed for no nonsense. All Briggs—navy seal, hardened war veteran, recipient of a handful of awards for his valor—could do was agree and wait with bated breath as his young partner slipped into the hole in the wall.

He didn't wait long. Alex was back and sealing up the hole in less than ten minutes. He watched with interest as the young European carefully replaced the sheetrock and painstakingly applied something gelatinous from one of the compartments in his wallet. To his surprise, the previously clear semi-solid took on the color and texture of the wall as it dried.

"Thank you Smithers," Alex mumbled.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing. Here." Alex slipped the sole out of one of his grimy tennis shoes and handed it to his partner.

"Thanks?" Briggs replied, looking at the shoe part with disdain. Alex chuckled, taking off his gold cross necklace and extracting the stolen papers from his shirt. He laid both items in Briggs's hands.

"The cross is a microphone: it has all the voice recordings I've managed to make. There's a memory card in the sole with photos, scans, names of people I've identified, and logs of different raw materials I've found. This is enough to send the majority of the executives to prison. When you're traveling, go by boat and bus as much as possible. Lay low at night, don't draw attention to yourself, and get to the boarder as quickly as possible," Alex said, rattling off whatever information he thought would be useful.

"There are a few guest rooms behind the bar. Your best bet for escaping unnoticed is through one of their windows. Oh, and one more thing." Alex turned his back to his partner. "Hit me."

"What?" The American asked, surprised.

"You heard me. I need an alibi. It won't make sense that you got away unless you knocked me unconscious first."

Briggs stared hard at the kid in front of him. He was serious and calm. The soldier thought for a moment and considered his options. Alex's best chance was to play the victim. It made sense to hit him. Still, whatever ethical code he still retained made him shy away from the act.

The young spy sighed impatiently. The American steeled his resolve and nodded.

"Well, I guess this is good-bye then. Don't get caught, alright?"

"I won't," Alex said with a grin. Briggs lashed forward and caught the spy with a hit to the pressure point at the back of his neck. He went down like a sack of bricks.

"Good luck, kid. You're going to need it."


	12. Rumors

_A/N: Well, there isn't really an excuse for this. It's pretty much just some crack my stressed brain pumped out. Also, I've decided this takes place when they're in high school, because Alex always seems older in my mind. _

"If you need notes from the week you missed, you can borrow mine," Tom announced at lunch one day. Alex nodded absently like he wasn't really listening.

"I didn't understand most of what Mr. Warren was talking about. I copied down the slides though, so it ought to be some help. I also doodled in the margins for your viewing pleasure."

"Umhm," he replied distractedly, and Tom sighed. Alex was a cool guy, but he was always so out of it when he got back from his missions. Oh well, at least it gave him a chance to mess with his friend a bit.

"And I was thinking about going shoe shopping today. Want to come?"

"Mmm."

"Yup, I need some stilettos to go with my sassy, new salsa dress. Red ones."

"Hm."

"Because I like to cross dress. If I want to feel especially pretty I put on some make-up."

"Nnnhm."

"Let's be honest, I've gone gay since your last mission. For you. Is that cool?"

"Uhmn."

"Awesome. So we should defiantly go on a date then. How do you feel about a picnic and a stroll through the park. Skipping will be involved."

"Ahmn."

"Sweet! So I'll see you this Saturday, snookums."

"Yeh… wait, what?" Tom smiled brightly at Alex as his friend mentally replayed the last two minutes of their conversation his face becoming increasingly more animated. Alex snorted and quirked an eyebrow.

"I'm flattered man, but I just don't swing that way," Alex replied, putting on a mock-serious face. Tom laughed and went on with his lunch.

Unfortunately, a few freshmen girls overheard their conversation and by seventh period the prime gossip was about the Alex Rider/Tom Harris wild weekend fling that resulted in Alex's absence. Tom could only gape in horror as student after student approached him with inquiries about their "relationship" and made comments on how long they thought it would last.

Alex was less fazed—he had spent two years as the target of vicious rumors so he felt fairly immune. He found Tom behind the soccer fields after school, obviously hiding from more curious bystanders. He smirked at his friend.

"The Brookland grapevine is the worst, huh?"


	13. Again

_A/N: Just is a snippet from my, "Alex plays dead and has a cool new life" story from "Mistaken." This is the part where his past catches up and things go to pot. But it's ok- it stands to reason that Alex's daughter is just as awesome as he is, so everything should work out. I tried to make this chapter run parallel with the beginning of _Stormbreaker.

It was three in the morning when Julia Smith woke up. Her first thought was, 'who in their right mind would ring the doorbell this early?' followed almost immediately by, 'this can't be good.' She climbed out of bed to answer the door—her dad was on an overnight business trip, so she was the only one home. She pulled a can of pepper spray out of the drawer as a precaution.

Julia looked out the peephole to see two men in uniform stood outside. A sense of dread settled on her shoulders as the teenager unlocked the door.

"Is this the Smith residence?" The first officer demanded.

"Yes. Can I help you?"Julia asked without inflection.

"Is your mother home?" the second man asked.

"No. She died a few years ago. Cancer." The two cops shared a look that Julia tried to decipher. Something between guilt, pity, and nervousness, she guessed.

"We regret to inform you that your father, Alex Smith, was killed in a car accident earlier tonight. He was drunk."

#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*

The next few days passed in a blur. Neighbors and mourners streaming into the house with food and flowers, crying and offering condolences. If she needed anything, "anything at all," they would be there to help. Her Dad's coworkers came to set something up for a funeral. She didn't cry once.

"It's tragic. She's so young,…"

"…an orphan. No family to take her in."

"Alex was careless. He shouldn't have been driving."

"…didn't think of his daughter."

"Horrific accident…"

"…body was burned beyond recognition. Julia shouldn't see…"

"It's just so sad."

Julia took everything in with a certain amount of numbness. She wanted to tell them all to go away, but knew it wouldn't be polite.

Something was terribly wrong, and the fourteen-year-old couldn't put her finger on it. But she knew, knew it deep in her bones that her dad wasn't dead. It was instinct, not denial. At least, she didn't think it was.

#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*

The morning of the funeral dawned bright and cold. The elderly couple from across the street drove Julia to the church where the service was held. She didn't see the point in wearing a dress, so went in jeans and a dress coat. She sat through the litanies, the eulogy, the morose choir numbers. She rode in the funeral procession, and then stood at the graveside as the casket was lowered into the ground.

Someone in the crowd was wailing, and there was plenty of sniffling. 'Flu season,' Julia thought dispassionately as she continued to scan the assortment of mourners. Everyone looked tired and somber with the exception of one man.

Something was different about this person. He was dressed in a suit and stood apart from the crowd. She tried to rationalize the instinct to herself. The man almost looked… satisfied. Like he guessed the villain in a mystery movie correctly, like all his expectations were proven right. As if sensing her gaze, the man turned to face her with a polite smile. Suddenly, Julia figured out what was bothering her about her dad's death.

The graveside service concluded with a few words, and then everyone dispersed to their cars. A few people approached her to offer their sympathies, but Julia paid them no mind. She dashed around the outside of the crowd, following the man in the suit.

She reached him just as he got to his car. Another man came out to open the door. His jacket bunched around his right hip.

'If this was a movie, that bulge would be a gun,' she thought, detached.

"Hey, sir!" she said.

"Yes?" he answered with that sickeningly polite smile.

"My dad wasn't drunk. He's a health nut—no smoking, no drinking. And he's super responsible. He'd never drive drunk. Never," she asserted. Julia didn't know why she was telling this to a stranger. All she knew was that this man did not belong at this funeral, and that he probably knew something she didn't.

His grin widened. "Maybe so. But then again, maybe you don't know your father as well as you think you do."

#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*#*

When Julia got home from the funeral, the front door was unlocked. It was locked when she left. Julia walked around the house, checking to see if anything was missing. When she got to her dad's study, she stopped. The door was open.

It was defiantly shut when she left this morning.

She crept into the room. Book shelves on one wall. Check. Window closed. Check. File cabinet closed. Check. Family pictures safe. Check. Computer desk untouched. Check. Laptop under the desk…. The laptop was missing.

If she wasn't suspicious before, she certainly was now.

She checked her own room last. Nothing was out of place, so she grabbed her favorite blanket from her closet with the hopes of curling up for a much needed sleep. A letter fell out of the folds. A letter with her name on the outside envelope, the five letters written in her dad's neat handwriting. 'A message from the dead? Sounds spooky,' she thought, and ripped it open.

_Jules,_

_If you're reading this, then I ran into some trouble. Don't believe everything you hear, and be careful who you trust. You've got to go. There is a backpack ready for you: it's hidden with the rest of the camping equipment. You need to buy a plane ticket to England with my credit card, and then take a bus to Trenton, New Jersey. Be sure to pay for the bus ticket in cash, and make sure you aren't followed. There are most likely people watching the house._

_Once you are in Trenton, you will be able to get some information at 7426 West Willow Street. Ask for Jack Starbright. Take care of yourself, and always trust your instinct. Be smart. Be safe. Hopefully I'll see you soon._

_Love,_

_Dad._


	14. Web

A web of lies—Alex decided that was the best analogy for his life. He was caught up, entangled. Everywhere he turned was a half-truth. Everyone he spoke to was fed a string of little white lies (blatant lies.) Eventually, these fabrications combined into a sticky mess, and it was impossible to extricate himself from that web. It was exhausting, disheartening, and he was sick of it.

If he was going to _stick_ with that analogy, (hahanotfunny) then the web would need a master weaver. Alex wondered if it was he himself, and dismissed the idea immediately. He told his fair share of untruths… but he couldn't be the one primarily responsible. What kind of spider got stuck in its own web?

So maybe the one responsible for his web was Blunt. After all, he was the manipulator behind Alex's strings, the one who sent him to his death on more than one occasion. The image fit perfectly in Alex's mind: Blunt, a deliberately unfeeling man playing the part of a calculating spider patiently waiting for its prey, trapping them one sneaky, sticky string at a time. Oh, yes, Blunt would be the perfect fit for the role. Alex wondered if it was that simple.

What about Ian? The man of the double life and constant lies, he who convinced all but a select few that he was a boring bank worker. A Beloved uncle, (though not a stand-in father. Alex never confused Ian for a father figure even though the man raised him. A deception can only go so far,) who thoughtfully taught his precious nephew self-defense. (And rockclimbing. And French. And wilderness survival. And scuba diving. And Morse code. And a thousand and one eclectic things that have few other applications then spy work.) All for what? When Alex had nothing else to wonder about, he wondered about Ian's motivations. People want their protégées to follow in their footsteps, right? But is that what he was to Ian? Some sort of twisted apprentice? Or was Ian just trying to relate to his nephew in the only way he knew how, with physical activity and miscellaneous information? Was the spy training inadvertent? Could it have been?

When he really, _really_, had nothing else to think about, Alex wondered about his father's lies. Plenty of the complicated web that comprised Alex's life was John Rider's fault. After all, had the man stayed in the military, they would be a happy family of three. Well, unless John died in active duty, but he'd still have a Mom at least. And that tangent made him wonder about his mother. Did John tell her about his assignment? Did she suffer in silence because he was serving his country? Or was she completely ignorant, living in squalor and loneliness because of a blind hope in her husband? He couldn't decide which situation depressed him more.

But as much as he hated the trap of lies his life had become, Alex could not relinquish it.

Not because he was in over his head, (even though, really, he was.) Alex was reminded why he was stuck whenever he saw Jack's eyes widen in horror or Tom's jovial mood go sour. In the middle of his missions, and after Ian's murder, after Yassan's death, and finally, after Ash's betrayal he knew for sure.

The truth hurts a helluva lot more than the lies.


End file.
